


Hit it like you mean it

by Fatale (femme)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - Sports, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-03-14 16:30:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13594002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: Magnus has emceed more events than he can count, mostly sporting, and early on, even made rounds on the pageant circuit to make ends meet. But this is his first love and he finds himself coming back to it again and again. Some announcers don’t even watch the matches, but he watches them all from the sidelines, close enough to feel the heat from the spotlights, the sweat flying in cold sprays across the canvas, the smell of copper in the air.There’s something about the sleek, stripped down violence of it. Both men wear satin trunks emblazoned with their names and elaborate gold patterns, a pretty wrapping paper for a brutal gift.---alec's a boxer, magnus is the announcer. a boxing au in three parts.





	1. TRAIN LIKE THERE’S NO TOMORROW

**Author's Note:**

> I have no business writing a story about boxing since I don’t know the first thing about it. I have reasons for making every choice that I did, but they’re not great ones. If you feel the need to yell at me for fucking up boxing basics, go yell at answers.com. I almost called the trunks boxers wear “silky bloomers” because that’s what they look like to me. That’s the kind of baseline knowledge we’re talking about here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updated: 9/24/2018 - incredible art by [Ria_Arei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ria_Arei/pseuds/Ria_Arei) added!

 

[ ](http://s1070.photobucket.com/user/fatalewrites/media/44766029511_cc76e9ed61_b_zpsusbg7qjf.jpg.html)

  
Magnus has been doing this for years, and he loves every part of his job: the shining lights, the thousands of cheering fans, the massive paycheck. ESPN pays well. But even so, he still has this brief moment of panic before each match, this feeling of _Oh god, I'm going to fuck this up, and no one will ever hire me again_. Then what he's going to do with his collection of glittery bowties?

Tonight’s fight is Alec Lightwood, a newcomer that’s already climbed the ranks of heavyweight against Joshua Wilder, an established boxer. Odds -500/+400 in favor of Wilder, but Lightwood is 44-0 with 38 knockouts. It’ll be interesting to see what the 22-year-old Lightwood can do against an old pro.

He takes a deep breath and steps into the center of the ring.

Magnus makes the announcement, drawing it out for suspense, listens to the swell of the crowd crescendo with his words, lets the enthusiasm melt into his skin and simmer there, a better jolt than caffeine, riding a high without the letdown. Nothing’s ever made him feel this good. In this suspended moment, the crowd loves him and he loves them back.

The bell dings.

Lightwood is a gifted fighter, light on his feet, with a fast jab and a long reach. Wilder is a power hitter, with incredible strength and flawless form, but he can’t keep up with the younger man. Lightwood is slowly grinding him down while avoiding taking a serious hit. If Wilder gets a solid punch in, it doesn’t matter how fast Lightwood is, Magnus knows the match is over. Sixteen of Wilder’s opponents never saw the fourth round.

Wilder takes a flurry of jabs to his left kidney. Magnus takes a sip of his bottled water and winces. He’s going to be pissing blood in the morning.

Magnus has emceed more events than he can count, mostly sporting, and early on, even made rounds on the pageant circuit to make ends meet. But this is his first love and he finds himself coming back to it again and again. Some announcers don’t even watch the matches, but he watches them all from the sidelines, close enough to feel the heat from the spotlights, the sweat flying in cold sprays across the canvas, the smell of copper in the air. There’s something about the sleek, stripped down violence of it. Both men wear satin trunks emblazoned with their names and elaborate gold patterns, a pretty wrapping paper for a brutal gift.

The audience is wearing their finest -- silk, taffeta, sequins -- all to watch two men beat each other to a pulp. It brings out the best and worst in people, a paradox Magnus finds endlessly fascinating.

The bell rings to signal the end of the first round, and as the fighters retreat to their corner, Magnus makes his way back to the center, ring girls at the ready to announce the second round. The ref checks in both corners, Lightwood has blood dripping into his left eye. The doctor and his corner clear him and the second round is underway.

They go the full ten rounds until Lightwood catches Wilder with a vicious right hook and Magnus hears something crunch beneath the pressure of his fist. The ref calls a break and both fighters retreat to their corners. From his vantage point, Magnus can already tell that the fight is over. He feels a tinge of regret for Wilder--this is in the final nail in the coffin of a long career, but not a lot of fighters last long in this industry and he’s done better than most.

Wilder is just a piece on an assembly line and now that he’s used up, he’s been replaced by a faster, younger model. Chances are, someday he’ll be announcing Lightwood’s final fight, too.

Wilder’s Chief Second lets the ref know to call it and just like that, the fight is over. Magnus announces Lightwood the winner. The applause is deafening, the crowd on their feet cheering for the handsome underdog, and normally Magnus would feel giddy, but Lightwood looks so dejected, Magnus hurries through the final score and steps back.

“Good fight,” he says to Lightwood, without thinking. He’s a beautiful face in a sea of them. Magnus has seen more fighters come and go than he can count. Only the toughest climb the ranks and stick around, and Lightwood is good, but it remains to be seen if he’s made of sterner stuff. Without any acknowledgment, Lightwood turns away, spits, and leaves the ring.

That gets his attention.

“Asshole,” Magnus mutters and turns back to the crowd.

  
\---

  
Magnus touches up his smudged makeup but leaves it mostly in place. He changes out of his sequined jacket, opting for something a little more sedate and packs his duffle carefully before exiting out the east side suite doors.

He steps into the private parking lot, nerves still jangling from the fight, the crowds. He tosses his keys, thumbs at his cellphone to check for missed calls. In a side alley, he sees a figure hunched over. He almost walks past, but the set of the shoulders is irritatingly familiar. He should know the profile--he’s been staring at it for the better part of an hour.

“Lightwood?” he asks, stepping over cigarette butts and kicking aside empty beer bottles.

“Yeah?” the dark figure says. He steps out into the streetlamp, yellow light shining down on him like a halo.

Magnus looks around. It’s rare to see fighters of his caliber without an entourage of dudebros and ladies with plastic tits. “You lost?”

“I just needed some time alone,” Lightwood says, crossing his arms, swollen knuckles dark pink against his green shirt. “Too many people in there.”

His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip where there’s a bead of blood clinging to the cut there. A huge guy crossing his arms and looming over Magnus should be intimidating, but he’s surprisingly soft-spoken, eyes wide, young. His arms, Magnus realizes, are not so much folded as wrapped around his body, hugging himself. Magnus is abruptly reminded that Alec is only 22, would likely barely be out of college and dorm rooms and shower shoes if his life hadn’t veered off into one of violence for currency.

“It was a good fight,” Magnus says, shifting his duffle onto the other shoulder.

“Was it?”

Magnus grins. “You had a better view than I did.”

Alec shakes his head. “I never really remember my fights -- just like, flashes afterward. I don’t even know until the end if I’ve won or not.”

“C'mon, that can’t be true.”

Alec grins and Magnus is reminded, suddenly, that he is very handsome. Like, ridiculously so, and his heart speeds up a little. “Well, I do tend to notice if I get knocked out,” Alec admits.

“I’ve looked over your stats, that hasn’t happened in a long time.”

“That’s what they tell me,” Alec says, looking down and kicking at a loose pebble. It’s a sad, childish gesture, and Magnus isn’t sure what he’s seeing. He’s interacted with hundreds, if not thousands of fighters, and none of them have quite surprised him the way Alec has.

“Cheer up, kid, you just made a small fortune tonight.”

“Alec,” he says. “Not kid, not champ, Alec.”

“Alec,” Magnus echoes softly. “Guess that means you should call me Magnus.”

“Everyone knows who you are.”

“Why, Alec, have you been looking me up?” The flirtatious tone just sort of slips past his lips before Magnus can stop it, and worry coils uneasily in his gut. Flirting with hyper-masculine fighters generally isn’t a good idea. And given his life-long fascination with sports and the type of men that play them, it’s a lesson he’s learned the hard way.

But Alec ducks his head down low, a hint of pink staining his cheeks, and Magnus is confused and a little intrigued, despite himself.

“I should probably get back,” Alec says. He looks back over his shoulder, stumbles a bit.

Magnus is left staring after him, baffled. “What just happened?” he asks no one in particular.

 

\---

 

Magnus flies to England next, where it’s gray and damp, and he can’t get used to not tipping and drinking lukewarm beer, he just _can’t_. He promptly catches a horrible head cold. The next time he sees Alec, he’s back on US soil, hasn’t slept properly for three days, eyes watery, nose running. He feels like ten pounds of shit stuffed into a five-pound bag.

He should cancel the gig, but it’s HBO, so the money is stupid good, and it’s Alec versus an enormous Russian with nearly ten years experience on him. It would be a lie to say he isn’t worried, but Glazkov is in the sunset of his career, has had two consecutive losses and Alec has the greater reach. Not by much, but in boxing and sex, every extra inch counts.

Magnus medicates himself to the gills and prays he doesn’t blow snot all over the microphone. He’s already feeling slightly better by the time he announces the fighters and the cheering crowd gets him the rest of the way there.

He needn't have worried, though. Glazkov makes it to the tenth round before a technical KO. He’s happy to announce Alec the winner.

After the match, he changes quickly, pops a couple of Ibuprofen and hurries out the side door, not letting himself examine why.

Alexander is back there, hood pulled up, features barely visible in the low light. He looks, Magnus thinks muzzily, a little like the Unabomber.

“Thought I might find you back here.”

Alec shrugs back the hood, freshly showered, damp hair wild and curling at his temples. “Feel like eating?”

A funny feeling flutters in the pit of Magnus’ stomach and it’s not the entire bottle of Robitussin he drank.

“Yeah,” he lies, “I could go for some food.”

“There’s a 24-hour diner down the street. Good pancakes.”

“Are you allowed to eat those?”

Alec grins. “No, but I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Magnus drops off his bag while Alec waits. “Lead the way,” Magnus says.

The diner is old, pleather seats cracked and uncomfortable, but Alec looks relaxed in a way Magnus has never seen him before. A waitress takes the orders and leaves two glasses of ice water.

“Won’t anyone miss you?”

Alec plays with the straw. “They’re used to me wandering off after fights. I need to unwind.”

“Most young men your age find other ways,” Magnus says, feeling coy. This might be a hesitantly blossoming friendship, but Alec’s hot and Magnus isn’t a monk.

Alec flushes. “I don’t do--that. And I’m not that young.”

The waitress slides their plates in front of them, brings Magnus a coffee and Alec a glass of orange juice. The food is suspiciously fast; he suspects the head chef of this establishment is a microwave. The light above their table flickers ominously, like the start of every slasher film Magnus has ever seen.

The gays always die first, thinks Magnus morosely. Alec looks up and frowns at the light, plump lips pursed. But what a way to go.

Magnus waits until the waitress has wandered back to her crossword puzzle, then says, “That’s something only young people say.”

“It’s not like you’re ancient.”

“No,” Magnus agrees. It just feels like it sometimes. He’s been in six different states and two countries in the past six months. He’s dated beautiful men and women, established himself as one of the foremost announcers in the world and is paid generously for his services. And yet, sitting in a shitty diner with a confused kid and eating soggy pancakes is the most honestly peaceful he’s felt in a long time.

“What are you doing?” Magnus asks.

Alec looks up from where he’s demolished half his short stack and says, confused, “eating pancakes?”

Magnus chuckles, shakes his head ruefully. “They’re good, I guess. If you’re into overly-sweet mushy foods.”

Alec shrugs. “It’s my favorite.” He’s polished his off, looks at Magnus’ nearly untouched plate mournfully. Magnus pushes his plate over to Alec. “Have at it.”

Alec shoots him a small, grateful smile and inhales Magnus’ order, too.

Magnus would normally be at the very least, mildly taken aback, but he’s charmed instead, since apparently everything about Alec seemingly fascinates him. He’s so fucking stupid.

Alec polishes off his orange juice noisily, then leans back, a lazy, satisfied grin on his face. “I’ll have to double my cardio tomorrow for that.”

“One has to live,” Magnus says.

Alec’s brow creases worriedly. “I guess. I probably shouldn’t have eaten that much though.” His finger trails through the leftover puddle of syrup on his plate and his absently pops it into his mouth.

Forcibly wrenching his eyes away from that tableau, Magnus takes a sip of his bitter coffee, scalds his tongue, feels like a dipshit as he sucks air over the aching flesh.

“Are you okay?”

“Magnificent,” Magnus croaks, eyes watering.

At least Alec no longer looks like a kicked puppy. True, he now seems concerned that Magnus can’t figure out how to drink coffee, but it’s an improvement over the hang-dog expression a moment ago. Still, he hates to see the simple pleasure disappear off Alec’s face. Even with their limited interactions, he has the distinct impression happiness is something in short supply in Alec’s life.

“How did you get into boxing?” He knows the rote answer, has read various interviews with Alec in sports magazines, but he’s genuinely curious, and he wants to wipe that sad, unhappy slant to Alec’s mouth away.

It works; Alec’s face smoothes out and he leans forward. He grins almost shyly. “I have this brother; he’s got kind of a big mouth. He always feels the need to protect people. In school, when he saw a kid getting bullied, he’d always step in, even if that meant getting his ass kicked a few times.”

“He sounds like a handful.”

“He is and so is my little sister. I was always the good kid. My family owns a gym and trains boxers. They kept getting into trouble, and I kept having to bail them out, so eventually, I figured I should probably learn how to fight.”

“Big jump to boxing professionally,” Magnus prompts.

“Well, I was a short skinny twelve-year-old, but I was still pretty good. When I grew four inches in one summer, I got really good, and my parents talked me into getting ranked. It really put our gym back on the map.”

“I can’t imagine you short.”

“Technically, we all start out that way.”

“Touché.”

“So how about you? How did you end up becoming an announcer?”

“I have a big mouth and I like to talk. It seemed like a good use of it.”

“Yeah, your mouth is really--something,” Alec says, stuttering slightly. He stirs his water, ice cubs clinking gently against the sides. His phone buzzes and he pulls it out of his pocket, checks the messages. “Izzy - my sister - is wondering where the hell I am.”

“We’d better get back then. Are they waiting on you?” Magnus asks.

“No, they’ve already left. They’re at the hotel now.”

“Which one are you staying at?”

“The Bellagio.” 

“Oh, I’m going past there. I can drive you.”

“Thanks. I wasn’t looking forward to figuring out the bus schedule at this time of night.”

Magnus feels his eyebrows rise. “Bus? Why couldn’t you call a cab?”

Alec gives an embarrassed little shrug. “I like the anonymity.”

Magnus has spent plenty of time with aw-shucks athletes that pretend they don’t like attention, that wear dumbass disguises like sunglasses and a hat to interact with the regular folk, but Alec is the first person he’s believed. The problem is, Alec is on the cusp of becoming too famous to do it anymore. He’s not sure how Alec will handle it when that day comes.

“Well, no bus for you tonight.” He signals for the check. As the waitress slaps it on the table, Magnus grabs it before Alec can protest. “I’ll get it this time. Next time, you can pay,” he says, heart pounding. It’s a really unsubtle question. He’s asking if there’ll be a next time.

The light above them flickers again. Their waitress uses her crossword puzzle to swat a fly.

“Yeah, definitely,” Alec says. “We should go, though. I feel we’re probably going to be murdered here.”

“Thank god,” Magnus breathes. “You, too?

 

\---

 

“Nice car,” Alec says, sliding into the passenger side of Magnus’ silver Tesla.

“It’s the first thing I bought myself when I started making big money.” Sexy, sleek, and a little _too much_. Kind of like Magnus, himself.

“I don’t know much about cars,” Alec admits.

“Don’t suppose you would, spending all your time on public transportation,” Magnus teases.

“I never had time to learn how to drive,” Alec protests, laughing. “It didn’t seem important at first, and now it’s just gotten embarrassing. I’m like, 10 years older than everyone at the DMV getting their licenses.”

“Alec,” Magnus says, “you don’t have to justify yourself to me. I was kidding; I think it’s great.”

“Great that I never learned a basic life skill?”

“If you had,” Magnus says a little slyly, “you wouldn’t be here with me now.”

“Yeah,” Alec says, head falling back. The street lights flash across his face in a dizzying pattern. They’re almost at the hotel, and Magnus has a brief stab of regret that the evening is over, not really early, but so unfinished. Is this a date? Are they friends? Acquaintances? Magnus doesn’t know, but he’s sure that he wants this to happen again.

They pull up to the Bellagio, and Magnus shifts his car into park. Alec’s head is turned away from him, chest rising slowly, sharp stubbled jaw outlined by the bright lights. Magnus has the unassailable urge to kiss Alec. He might be reading the situation wrong, this whole thing might be a Sudafed-fueled fever dream, and it wouldn’t be the first time, but he doesn’t think he is. Just when he’s about to say, fuck it, and lean across the console, Alec’s phone rings again, making them both jump.

Alec sighs after checking his phone. “It’s Izzy again. I better go.”

“Sure,” Magnus says. “I understand.”

“You got your phone on you?” Alec asks, holding his hand out.

“Yes?” Magnus says and hands it to him.

Alec taps a few buttons and hands it back. “It’s my number,” he says, “for the next round of pancakes,” and slips out of the car, door closing softly behind him.

Magnus sits in his car, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, heart thudding loudly in his chest. Every time Alec leaves, Magnus ends up more confused. And a little turned on.

 

\---

 

If anyone were to ask what he did as soon as he got back to his hotel room, Magnus would say he had a nightcap and went directly to bed. It wouldn’t be a lie. He just wouldn’t add that he also booted up his laptop and promptly started reading all the information on Alexander Lightwood the internet has to offer. Interviews, articles, profiles. He might have even looked up his body measurements. He stops just short of drawing Alec’s name in a notebook next to his own with sparkly hearts around it. This is madness, a staid disapproving voice says in the back of his mind. It sounds a lot like Ragnor. Magnus blows his nose angrily.

It’s not that he doesn’t date athletes, it’s that most of the boxers he deals with aren’t really worth dating--they’re adamantly straight or so deeply closeted he’d need spelunking equipment to go down on them.

He tries to put the entire night out of his head, but he just can’t seem to stop thinking about Alec -- his legs, his shoulders, Jesus, his _mouth_. What it would feel like against his.

After he goes to bed and closes his eyes, Magnus sees yellowed streetlights flashing over Alec’s handsome face, the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows, his hands, curled loosely on his lap, bruised and swollen.

In his dream, he kisses each scarred knuckle, one by one.

 


	2. MASTER YOUR TECHNIQUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that he’s actively looking for him, Magnus sees reminders of Alec everywhere.

[ ](http://s1070.photobucket.com/user/fatalewrites/media/42708180260_24827e4443_b_zpsprqlefym.jpg.html)

 

Now that he’s actively looking for him, Magnus sees reminders of Alec everywhere -- promo posters outside a club, a billboard by the side of the road, a magazine cover at the supermarket. It’s like the world is conspiring to make him feel like a teenaged horndog.

It may be hard to believe, but Magnus does not actually have the best dating history. He has, according to credible sources, a long history of falling for beautiful faces with unknowable depths, sniffs out tragedy like a hound dog with a mission. He falls in love hard, and quickly, and even if the person turns out to be a bit of a shitbag, vows to save them from whatever he has made up in his head.

A bit of a savior complex, Catarina says affectionately.

Thinks with his dick, says Ragnor.

He imagines complexities that aren’t there, assigns profundity to the mundane. Camille was just a raging bitch with an S&M fetish that thought of safe words as suggestions, Imasu was a stoner with a guitar made from an armadillo shell, and sweet God, Magnus is doing it again. He's fucking _doing it again_. He has no proof beyond a couple of conversations that Alec is anything other than a confused college-aged kid that has a great right hook. Magnus doesn’t trust what he feels anymore; he’s been wrong too many times before.

The best way to fix this is to see Alec again, Magnus reasons. So he can see how boring and _not special_ he is. In his head, Ragnor _cackles_.

He has Alec’s number and they’re both in the same city for another two days. Objectively, there's no reason not to call him.

He’d like to say he calls Alec immediately, but avoidance isn’t something you grow out of. He orders room service, chews each bite twenty times, calls Catarina and lets her soothing tone wash over him. He avoids calling Ragnor, who would just mock him for his current predicament before helping.

Finally, once his rings and shoes are polished, he has answered his emails, all of his shirts have been sent out for pressing and he has picked and discarded eight outfits, he literally has nothing left to do. Normally, he’s always busy. But now that he desperately doesn’t want his hopes dashed, he’s fucking _efficient_ or something.

His finger hovers over Alec’s name for a solid thirty seconds before he dials the number.

When Alec answers, he’s breathing hard and Magnus feels his eyes close as he curses the sky, like an absolute lunatic.

“Alexander,” he says, feigning cheerfulness. _Alexander?_ he mouths at himself, quietly appalled.

“Magnus? Hang on.” There’s music in the background that fades away. “Sorry, working out. Wanted a little privacy.”

“I was wondering if you were going to be free today.”

There’s a slight hesitation, then Alec says, “I should be later on. Seven?”

“I’ll pick you up then. It’s a date.”

“Y-yeah. See you then.”

  
\---

  
If this is a date, then Alec’s idea of a date outfit is a Canadian Tuxedo, which is just awful, and so perfectly Alec. The shirt pulls against the breadth of his shoulders, his hair is dark and wild, and Magnus thinks he looks perfect, denim on denim and all.

“Where to?” Magnus asks.

“I thought this was your show.”

“Every show’s my show,’ Magnus says with a grandiosity he doesn’t feel. Something about Alec makes him feel uncomfortably vulnerable, laid bare in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. Alec’s startling honesty makes Magnus want to reciprocate. It's _vile_. It’s like he wants Alec to know him, and that truth is looming and frightening and too large for Magnus to handle.

“Food?” Alec says, eyeing a terrible looking café. The health rating is lower than Magnus’ high school calculus grade and he’s awful at math, always has been.

“Sounds great,” Magnus says and resigns himself to another confusing, gut-churning evening with Alec.

 

\---

  
The food is about what Magnus expected, but the conversation flows easily and he even gets Alec to laugh a few times. Not the tight-lipped grimace he usually flashes at the cameras, but a full-throated chuckle that makes Magnus feel warm all the way down to his toes.

True to his word, Alec pays with crumpled bills he pulls out of his pocket one at a time.

“You do have a bank card, right?” Magnus asks, a little afraid of the answer. He imagines Alec taking his winnings and burying them in his backyard. Or worse yet, stuffing them into an absolutely enormous piggy bank. He’s never felt more like a cradle-robber and that includes the time he had to explain to a date who Paul Newman was.

“Of course,” Alec says, confused. “But who doesn’t keep cash on them? Like, how is that practical?”

Magnus does not carry cash, has not had cash on his body in the past decade, unless he counts the unfortunate incident in Tijuana with an outfit that was, in hindsight, too risqué for a night out.

“You know they charge you for debit card transactions, right?” Alec continues. “Like, the charge may be minuscule, but it adds up.”

“I…did not know that,” Magnus says, weirdly excited by Alexander’s unexpected fiscal responsibility. He’s beginning to think everything about Alec might rev his engine a little. He’s tempted to ask Alec about the state of the housing market while he touches himself, just to be sure. Later, maybe.

Everything he’s learned about Alec thus far points to him not only having a solid baseline knowledge of the subject but an actual _opinion_. He’s a secret nerd, Magnus realizes, thrilled.

“Want to get out of here?” Alec asks, tapping his fingers against the stained Formica.

“Feel like a walk?”

“Sure, could always use the cardio," Alec says, a little ironically. They just can't seem to get past his job.

They walk for a while, the night cool and dry and still, not too close, shoulders brushing occasionally. There's nothing wrong with casual hookups, but Magnus had forgotten what it felt like to go on an honest-to-God date. The open-endedness of it. The possibility.

A couple of fans stop Alec to take a picture with him and Alec turns bright red, looks a little like he might actually expire from embarrassment, and hands the phone to Magnus to get the shot. Magnus takes the picture, gives back the phone, and they wave good-naturedly. He likes the kind of fans that don’t linger, don’t want to talk shop.

They keep walking. After a bit, he recognizes the block next to his hotel. He honestly, truly did not mean to bring Alec this way, but he stays here each time he comes to Vegas, and he’s gotten used to the route.

“This is me,” Magnus says, pointing at the hotel.

“Oh,” Alec says, stopping abruptly.

They’re having such a good time, it seems a shame to end the night early. “You could come up,” Magnus offers. “For coffee. Or whatever.” He sincerely hopes Alec decides on _whatever_.

“Yeah, okay,” Alec says after a moment.

Alec follows Magnus through the lobby, into the elevator, and to Magnus’ room, the tension growing increasingly uncomfortable. This is clearly a date, they know it’s a date, the doorman knows they’re on a date.

Finally, Magnus can’t take it anymore. “Are you coming in for actual coffee or sex?”

Alec’s mouth hangs open. “I-I didn’t know sex was on the table.”

“Everyone knows coffee’s a euphemism,” Magnus says. “I don’t even have coffee in my room.”

“It seemed rude to assume.”

“You knock people out for a living and now you’re concerned with manners?”

In response, Alec crowds Magnus against the door and kisses him, lips slick, bodies pressed tightly together.

It’s a damn good kiss.

“Thank fuck,” Magnus sighs and looks Alec up and down. “This is really how you dress on a date?”

  
\---

 

Taking stumbling, clumsy steps backward, kissing and laughing in equal measure, they manage to make it to Magnus' bed. 

For all that Alec is shy about many things, an occasional absolute stuttering mess, he’s amazingly confident in the sack. He presses soft kisses down Magnus’ neck, flicks a tongue out to taste him, bites down gently on the juncture between Magnus' neck and shoulder, his hand creeping down to cup Magnus’ dick through his pants. Magnus’ hips buck against the light pressure.

He kisses the corner of Magnus’ mouth, unzips his pants and pulls out his cock. The night is quiet, the only sound the slight hum of the air conditioning and their panting breaths. Magnus fumbles with Alec’s zipper, manages to push his pants down his hips. Alec spits inelegantly in his hand and -- before Magnus can protest that he has lube right _there_ \-- takes them both in his hand and then Magnus can’t say much of anything at all.

He’s not been lonely, but it’s been a while since he’s done this with someone he’s cared about this much, and hurried and rudimentary as it is, the fact that it’s Alec’s hand wrapped around him, it’s Alec’s dick rubbing against his, the firm press of Alec’s weight against his, sets his entire body on fire. It's over embarrassingly quickly and Magnus grabs a damp washcloth from the bathroom to clean themselves up, feels a brief pang of guilt for housekeeping, but he's sure they've seen worse. Probably from him.

Magnus settles in behind Alec on the bed and throws the comforter haphazardly over them. He wraps an arm around Alec’s waist, feels the reassuring warmth of his skin, falls asleep curled around him, calm and happier than he can remember being in a long time.

  
\---

  
Magnus wakes up in the middle of the night, Alec pushing back against him. He rubs his dick along the crease of Alec’s ass, half-asleep, mindless pleasure rolling over him. Alec turns over, pulls Magnus on top of him and Magnus settles between his knees. They kiss, rutting languidly against each other until Magnus grabs the lube, coats his fingers and reaches down past Alec‘s balls and pushes gently into him. He fucks him slowly with his fingers, as Alec sighs into his mouth.

Eventually, Alec gets impatient, screwing himself back onto Magnus fingers and Magnus pulls out with an amused huff. He reaches into the side table, grabs a condom and puts it on, slicks himself up and guides himself into Alec’s body. The heat and pressure is incredible, and Magnus watches Alec’s eyes close, lashes dark against his cheeks.

He takes his time fucking into Alec, hand on Alec’s cock, squeezing and rolling his hand gently in time with his thrusts. Alec comes fast, striping his stomach, warmth pooling between them. What it must be like to be 22 again, Magnus marvels. Alec goes limp beneath him, one hand wrapped gently around Magnus’ neck and Magnus holds his knees up and back, pushes deeper and deeper into his body. He leans down, kisses Alec open-mouthed and sloppy as he thrusts one last time and stills, orgasm shuddering through his body. He shivers and collapses on top of Alec.

“That was great,” Alec says, sounding still half-asleep despite the fact that he has a grown man on top of him. Boxing must really fuck with your baseline level of tolerable discomfort, Magnus supposes.

“I live to serve,” Magnus says wryly, pulling out carefully. He tosses the condom in the general vicinity of the trash can. He can deal with it in the morning.

“Asshole,” Alec mumbles and Magnus laughs softly. It’s the same thing he called Alec the first time he met him.

“Go to sleep, Alexander,” Magnus says, scraping his hands through Alec’s sweaty hair, down his neck, and tries not to be terrified by the tenderness he hears in his own voice. Alec’s eyes are already closed and he's snoring softly.

  
\---

  
The sun is streaming through the curtains the next time they wake up.

“Morning,” Alec says, rolling over to face Magnus. He’s already been awake for the better part of an hour, but he stayed in bed, _not_ creepily watching Alec sleep. Jesus, going by Alec’s grin, he already knows, the smug bastard.

“I should go, I need to work out.”

“You shouldn’t overdo it.”

“It’s the only way I’ll get better,” Alec says but doesn’t sound convinced. It’s like he’s repeating lines from a script he’s memorized. “Have to train to be the best.”

“Be careful, Alexander. The view from the top is lonely.”

“Know that from experience?”

“I’ve learned a thing or two. Like, if you do things for the wrong reasons, you’ll never be happy.”

“What about you?” Alex asks. “Why do you do it?”

“I thought I told you.”

“You said you had a big mouth,” Alec recalls. “But that’s not true, is it? Or at least not the only reason.”

Magnus could lie, could be glib, and Alec would probably let it drop. He’s been betrayed, he’s been bribed, used for fame and money, and every time left him a little more damaged than before. But none of that is Alec’s fault. And Alec, with his bus passes, who learned to fight to protect his siblings, who sneaks pancakes at 3 am diners, is none of those things. He deserves the truth, and for the first time in a long while, Magnus finds himself wanting to share it.

“I once saw a match with my stepfather. We weren’t close, but he thought it was important for me to see real men. It was a dinky fight in a neighborhood gym, but it was packed. I fell in love. I loved boxing, everything about it, Alec, but I'm not a fighter, never was. But in the center of all that excitement, all that testosterone, there was an announcer.

“He had this old-fashioned pompadour and a sequined dinner jacket. It should have looked ridiculous, but he knew his shit. He was a showman, and he ratcheted up the excitement by a thousand percent, and all these guys, all these men who would’ve beaten his ass if they passed him on the street, shut the hell up and listened when he spoke. He had their respect, he had their love. I watched the fight with my stepfather and it was the first time I could ever remember being happy, understanding the boys like me, who like glitter and eyeliner, we could have a place in the sports world. We could have money and respect--”

“And love,” Alec adds softly.

“My mother,” Magnus clears his throat here, “she died shortly after and for a long time, it was one of the last happy memories I had left.”

“The crowds cheer for me,” Alec says, “but it’s not real love, Magnus. I'm always one fight away from losing it.”

“Of course it’s real,” Magnus says. “It’s real enough in the moment. And that love is great, feels like everything you’d ever need, but I think at the end of the day, we just want to be known, to be understood, and accepted. Someone told me once, it’s good to be loved, but it’s profound to be understood.”

“Has anyone ever understood you, Magnus?”

“Hmmm, people have tried. Isn’t that good enough?”

“No, you deserve everything you want in life.” Alec says, with the kind of complete unflinching sincerity that makes Magnus shrivel up a little inside.

It’s too much, Magnus wants to tell him. You have to guard your heart better, or else it’s too easy to break. He can’t believe he needs to tell a boxer about defense.

Alec runs a hand over Magnus’ arm, laces their fingers together. Magnus breathes in, then out, says, finally, “As do you, Alexander.”

Alec’s mouth twitches upward. “I’m sure staring at a bunch of half-naked hot, sweaty guys also didn’t hurt, huh?”

“There’s also that,” Magnus agrees and give’s Alec’s hand a squeeze.

 

\---

 

They meet up in Dallas, Los Angelas, London, and New York.

They sneak away to Magnus’ hotel, eat pancakes at dives in every city, branch out to hot dog carts. Magnus fears he’s getting Pavlovian conditioning to indigestion. He can’t walk past a food truck without popping a boner; it’s a real problem.

Alec’s going to be in his off-season in a month or so, and usually, when boxing draws to a close, Magnus switches to announcing other sports, but he could maybe take some time off. He and Alec could go on a vacation together. He tries to imagine Alec in the Bahamas, sipping a daiquiri, stretched out in the sun. He’d buy Alec an indecently teeny swimsuit if only he could talk Alec into wearing it. Or he could rent out the beach, no swimsuit needed. Problem solved.

He goes to the gym where Alec trains in New York, runs into his lead trainer, Hodge, on his way in.

“Alec’s in the showers, icing down. He’ll be out in a few,” Hodge tells him. They’ve been somewhat circumspect, but Alec’s strength lies in his fists, not subtlety. All of their close acquaintances know or at least suspect.

“Looking forward to the next match?”

Hodge pulls a face. “Alec’ll be fine.”

Magnus blinks. “Was there any doubt?” He doesn’t know who Alec’s next match-up is, just that he’s not announcing it. They’ll both be in Las Vegas, but in different venues. Magnus is headed to the MGM while Alec’s match will be at the pink monstrosity, the T-Mobile Arena.

“He’s matched with a newer fighter from this gym.”

It’s unusual, but not unheard of. Most boxers decline to be matched with someone from the same gym, but it does happen. Still, why would Hodge be so concerned with a newer fighter than Alec? Unless the guy’s built like an actual tank, Magnus has a hard time believing he could beat Alec. Warning bells go off in the back of his mind.

“Are you going to be there?” Hodge asks.

He wasn’t planning to, not until this very moment. “Yes,” Magnus decides.

  
\----

  
Magnus waits ten minutes before he can’t stand it anymore. He barges into the men’s locker room, which is thankfully empty, besides a wide-eyed Alec.

“What’s going on with your fight next week?”

Magnus’ oh-shit-meter hits the red as Alec avoids his eyes, tugging up his shirt to put deodorant on.

“I’m probably going to lose,” he mumbles.

“Probably or definitely?” Magnus asks, a sick suspicion forming in his gut.

“Definitely,” Alec admits, bracing himself against the sink. When he finally meets Magnus’ eyes, he looks worn, tired, like he’s already lost.

Magnus goes cold. “You’re talking about match fixing, Alec. You get could get fined, banned from boxing for life. Fuck, you could go to _prison_.” He’s no fool, he knows this sort of thing happens more than it ought to, but he loves boxing, has chosen to make his career on its back, and he can’t believe Alec would get involved in this kind of dirty business. It ruins the sport, makes the fans’ love and his entire career a lie.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Then why the fuck are you doing it?”

“My family could lose everything. _Everything_ , Magnus. The gym is in debt, they need the money. I’m not a real contender for any major titles this year, and the guy I’m fighting? He needs the boost to his ranking and losing this fight guarantees me easier matches next year.”

“Alec,” Magnus says, “you don’t need easier matches. You’re an amazing fighter.”

Alec stops, turns to face Magnus, brows lowered. “You announce a lot of matches, right? How many gay boxers you see out there?”

Magnus feels like all the air’s been sucked out of the room. “What are you trying to say?”

“We can be as careful as we want, but someone’s going to find out about us--about me. They always do. How many more years do you think I have to grab a championship?”

“What do you care? You don’t even like fighting.”

Alec stops short. “What? That’s ridiculous.”

“Of course it’s not. I have eyes. I can tell you hate it.”

“Even if I did, what would it matter? What else am I qualified for?”

“You can do anything you want, Alexander. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”

“What should I do, huh? Give up my career for you?”

“No,” Magnus says. “Give up your career for _you_. You hate this. This is killing you. You can’t fight this guy just to pad his numbers.”

If he loses on purpose, he’ll have to take a beating, probably the worst of his career, so it won't look suspicious. Last month, a fighter lost and died. Magnus had thought of Alec while reading the headline, fingers shaking. He can’t be around to watch it happen to Alec.

Magnus knows that if Alec does this, this is all they will ever have: a tenuous connection over pancakes, a few stolen nights of amazing sex, passing glances across an auditorium.

They could have been so much more.

“So you’re going to do it,” Magnus says, voice dull. He laughs, but it’s bitter rasp. “Of course you are. Anything for a pat on the head from your parents, anything so you don’t lose your fans.” Magnus knows it isn’t fair; it’s true, but not the whole truth. He hates the words spilling out of his mouth, hates himself for making Alec look this way, even as he’s saying them, but he can’t seem to stop. Heartbreak has a way of bubbling up, turning feelings vicious and dark, spreading the hurt around until it cripples everyone in its path.

It would have been better if Alec had told him to go fuck himself, or anything else, other than the startled blink over damp eyes, the way his face goes ashen.

Entire body numb, he watches Alec stagger back, turn around and walk out.

 

\----

  
He passes Izzy on his way out.

“What would you do, if you saw someone making the biggest mistake of his life?”

“Isabelle, I take it?” Magnus says, feeling exhausted. Every muscle in his body aches. For better or worse, he’s just done ten rounds. And gotten knocked out.

She grins widely. “The one and only. It’s pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bane.”

“Wish it was under better circumstances," Magnus says.

“I think this is the perfect time,” she says.

He looks at her closely; he can see the resemblance in her solemn eyes. She knows. “I guess I’d stay out of his business. Alec’s a grown man. He can make his own stupid decisions.”

“Who said I was talking about Alec?” she says and holds the door open for him.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The person that tells Magnus about love is Portia de Rossi and she didn't say this to Magnus, but to her wife, Ellen, which because I am weird, I immediately turned into fanfiction. It's actually a little gross when I put it this way, but my peeps, it is one of the most profound statements on relationships I have ever heard.


	3. ANALYZE YOURSELF

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Vegas where it all began, Magnus falls easily into old habits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's bring it home. Thanks for reading, guys, TRULY. I know 15 comments and 50 kudos is nothing in this fandom, but I'm super easy to please and I appreciated each and every one. Do swing by and say hi on [tumblr](http://unrestrainedlyexcessive.tumblr.com).

 

 

Back in Vegas where it all began, Magnus falls easily into old habits. He hadn’t meant to, but all the bar TVs were playing SportsCenter, where they were picking apart Alec’s fight with Miller a few months ago, who just tested positive for banned substances. Alec won, so there’s no victory to be vacated, but it reminds Magnus that the sport he announces is not the same sport he watched as a kid.

He pre-games from the mini-fridge, goes down to the hotel bar and picks up a lovely couple up for a good time. She’s slim with long dark hair and red lips and he’s tall with broad shoulders and pale, pale skin. God, he’s sloppy drunk with a bed full of ghosts.

Camille had made him small, mean. He let her change him into whatever she wanted, and knowingly or not, he was letting Alec do the same. He was willingly setting himself up for years of being “that boxer’s really good friend” and the abso-fucking-lutely worst part of it is, he’d do it still. He gets that it’s hard to come out, gets that Alec’s career might very well be over if he ever does, and he can live with that. Alec had never asked him to hide, but he doubts his parents would have allowed anything else. They would have worked it out; Alec was worth it. It wasn’t love, not quite yet, but it was close. But he _cannot_ watch Alec tear himself apart for people that don’t even care about or know him. Magnus isn’t that stupid yet. Sometimes the possibility of love just isn’t enough.

“You okay, man?” Tall, dark, and handsome asks from the bed. Wound around his girlfriend, they make an enticing picture, one that would have lit Magnus’ veins on fire a year ago, made him feel _alive_. Now it just makes him sad, hollowed out and empty, because last week, it had been Alec in his bed. Everything else pales in comparison.

“Oh my god,” Magnus says and drops his bottle of whiskey. “I’m already in love that asshole.”

What would it have been like, if they’d met under different circumstances? Would Alec be a college student? Would Magnus be an extra on _Toddlers & Tiaras_? Magnus would likely not have given Alec the time of day and Alec might be one of those douchey frat boys, a self-hating queer bro, who makes fun of flashy people like Magnus. Alec would live his life hating everything he is but not knowing a way out and Magnus would live his life always searching for something more, a perfect connection with another person and finding nothing. Maybe, maybe.

But they met this way, and Magnus has to believe it’s for a purpose other than bedding townies and getting shit-faced on top shelf liquor.

He does not have to like everything Alec does to love him. He can both understand and disapprove of Alec’s actions; the two aren’t mutually exclusive.

The alcohol is seeping out of his _pores_. He’s past pleasantly buzzed and onto the part where he has to pee all the time and his ass randomly sweats. It is, on the whole, perhaps not his most elegant epiphany, but it might be his most important.

Suddenly, he knows that he’s going to crash the match because pancakes are ruined for him forever, because he carries cash with him wherever he goes now, because he cannot forget how Alec kicks pebbles when he’s bored, or the way his heart speeds up when he sees Alec enter a room. He likes himself with Alec: open and funny and willing to take risks. He thought Alec was changing him, but he was changing _himself_. For the better.

He pulls on his shoes, breaks a lace, and then promptly falls off the side of the bed.

“You okay?” the woman asks.

“Could you be a dear and brew me a pot of coffee?” Magnus asks from the floor.

   
\---

  
He grabs a cab outside his hotel.

“Where to?” the driver asks.

“T-Mobile Arena,” Magnus answers. “And make it fast,” he adds, slipping the driver a crisp hundred.

Thanks, Alec.

  
\---

  
Name recognition gets him through the doors. He pretends he’s announcing the match tonight, and he’s been here so many times before, security knows him on sight. Thank God, because the pass he has clenched in a sweaty fist is a Quiznos gift card.

Alec should have his own suite on the third floor, so he heads that way, pushing through the crowd, ignoring occasional shouts of recognition. It’ll make page six tomorrow what a flaming asshole he is to his fans, but he’s got more important things to worry about right now.

The air is electric with excitement, the halls illuminated neon pink. It’s really an atrocious color, but he supposes that’s what happens when phone companies build arenas. He’s never entered the building from this direction, never elbowed his way through the milling audience. The corridors smell like the wax they use on the floors every night, cooking food, and Miller Time. He thought boxing was a bloodsport, that people came to see grown men hurt each other and while that’s certainly true for some, the vast majority of sports fans come in hope--hope to see a spectacle they’ll remember forever, hope for a moment that will change their lives.

Magnus makes it past the second security checkpoint, but that’s only sheer dumb luck. It could have just as easily been a newbie that didn’t know who he was and wouldn’t take his word for it. It’s like the stars are aligning, the universe wants him and Alec to be together. He feels like he could float to the top floor on the sheer force of his joy.

He should probably take the escalator, though.

He arrives at Alec’s suite, the name A. Lightwood on a sign across the door. Inside, he can hear the low buzz of conversation. He knocks, and Izzy opens the door. “Magnus?”

“Isabelle, I need to talk to Alec,” he says, heart hammering painfully. He’s so close, he can taste it. If he could just see Alec one more time, he can explain why this is wrong, explain that he’ll be here for Alec through the fallout, explain it all, he just needs to see Alec _right the fuck now_. “Izzy, Alec!”

Her dark eyes go sad. “Sorry, Magnus, you just missed him. He’s heading into the ring now.”

 

\----

  
Magnus slumps against the corridor wall. He’s too late.

Life has given him infinite chances and he’s stood before the branches in the road and made the wrong choice the majority of the time. He’s let fear, insecurity, and bad memories guide his hand, but he can’t do that anymore. The stakes are too high.

He stands up, thinks about where the boxers enter the ring, wracks his brain for a shortcut. Southgate entrance. If he’s wrong, he’ll enter the seating area on the complete opposite side of Alec, but if he’s right--

Magnus runs down the escalator, taking them two at a time, cuts through Neon Alley, knocks over a man, yells, “Sorry, I’m so sorry!” as Magnus scrambles over his flailing body. He rounds the corner through the back entrance to the tunnels the fighters use, only to hit a wall of security.

A tall robed shadow ahead catches his eye.

“I’m the announcer!” he yells at security, waving his card. “I’m supposed to be out there!”

Alec turns, sees Magnus. “Let him though," he yells back. He’s standing at the entrance, ready to make his way through the aisle into the ring, his confused face reflected back at Magnus from every angle on the multiple jumbotrons. He’s being introduced, but the announcer trails off as Alec's progress stalls.

Magnus pushes past the security, while someone behind him asks, “Is that a Quiznos card?”

He’s in pretty good shape, but he just ran a quarter of a mile in under two minutes in Ferragamo loafers. He staggers towards Alec, huffing unattractively, and still a little tipsy.

He wants to tell Alec about how he ran through this labyrinth of a building looking for him, how long he has been searching for him without knowing exactly who he was reaching out for. How many obstacles, real and metaphorical, he’s had to clear to get to this exact moment.

Magnus has never been a fighter before, but he's learning how.

The crowd is still cheering, but they’re getting restless, impatient. He leans close to Alec, pushes his green hood back, and whispers in his ear, “I’m here for you.”

“Magnus, what are you--”

“Whatever you choose, I won’t be angry. I need you to know that before you get in the ring. I don’t like this. I think it’s wrong and you’ll live to regret it, but nothing you do can change how I feel about you. I get why you’re doing this, I get _you_ , Alec. And whatever you do, I’m with you. I _love_ you.”

Magnus pulls back, holds Alec’s gaze, hands wrapped lightly around Alec’s arms.

One heartbeat, two--

“I love you, too,” Alec says and leans forward to kiss Magnus, the roaring crowd around them fading away. The rest of the world will come for them later to complicate things, make them second-guess themselves. But for now, it’s just them and this moment.

Magnus breaks the kiss. “I feel like I still should point out that this fight is a terrible idea,” he says, ruining this beautiful reunion because he can’t keep his mouth shut, _of course_. “But like, if you have to, you have to,” he babbles. “I know I’m not making any sense.”

Alec smiles, cupping Magnus’ face gently between his bulky gloves, and says, “I understand you perfectly, Magnus Bane.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. INEVITABLE VICTORY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, also messing with this fic!

EPILOGUE

 

 

 

ESPN, CNN, and SportsCenter are all asking for exclusives; Alec’s agent wants to hold a press conference; Hodge, his parents, and sister have left over twenty voicemails. He’s been blacklisted for pulling out of the fight minutes before it was scheduled to begin. Agents and promoters don’t want to risk that kind of money, and the big gay moment beforehand didn’t help.

Still, there’s interest and Magnus knows if he wanted to, Alec could claw his way back. He’s still an amazingly gifted fighter.

Will he fight again?

Probably not, but maybe--maybe after college, after Alec figures out what he wants to do with his life, once the stress and the furor die down, Alec will go back to boxing. He did love it at one time. Maybe he will again.

Magnus was pretty famous in the boxing world before all this, but the offers have been pouring in lately. He’s held to a different standard than the fighters and he’s never been shy about his sexuality. It’s part of his appeal. He’s the party guy.

The label isn’t as much fun as it used to be. After the first few calls, he lets the rest go to voicemail.

“What are we going to do?” Magnus asks curiously, twitching the curtains back to see paparazzi camped out in front of the hotel.

“Anything we want,” Alec answers, coming up behind him and wrapping his arms around Magnus. They close the curtains behind them.

 


End file.
